


Something Left to Lose

by FervidAsAFlame



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5:2 Diet, Established Relationship, Fasting, Humor, M/M, Sexual Frustration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 10:44:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6750733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FervidAsAFlame/pseuds/FervidAsAFlame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Right,” John said, and stormed back to the kitchen, Soon Sherlock could hear the sounds of broccoli being chopped angrily.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>He flopped back onto the bed. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Fucking broccoli,” he said to the ceiling. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“What was that?” John shouted back. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Sherlock knew better than to reply.</i>
</p>
<p>John goes on a diet. Sherlock just wants to get laid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Left to Lose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gayshipbaeship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayshipbaeship/gifts).



> Dedicated to my dear, dear friend [Michelle](https://twitter.com/BenBatched), who is far better at sticking to the 5:2 diet than I am and whose stories may or may not have insprired certain sections of this fic. Sorry you had to wait OVER A YEAR for this silly fic, I hope it doens’t disappoint! <3 
> 
> HUGE thanks to [Jordyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jordyn172/) and [Leanne ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PhdJohnlock%0A/) for the tag team beta work and general tolerance of my showing-people-my-work anxiety. You guys are are the best! 
> 
> Thank you also to the sweetest [Linda](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ARedRedRose/) for the speedy and through brit pick!

If there was one thing John Watson was good at, it was denying himself something he wanted. After all, it had taken him years to finally admit to himself that he wanted Sherlock Holmes, and another year past that to clue Sherlock in. So Sherlock really ought to have known from the start the diet was a bad idea.

In the weeks since the inception of their relationship, they had developed a nice little routine for the mornings John was due at the clinic. John would thumb off his phone’s alarm and stagger out of bed to use the toilet and start the shower. When he stepped in, Sherlock would roll onto his stomach, shove his arms under the pillows, and lounge in the warmth of their bed until he heard the taps shut off. He’d then push himself off the bed, shrug into a dressing gown, and amble down the hall to the kitchen where he’d switch on the kettle and then pop downstairs to fetch the papers. By the time the kettle had switched off and he’d brewed the tea, he’d retire to his armchair with whichever papers looked most interesting. John would come out of the bedroom dressed, put two pieces of bread in the toaster, remove the teabags and fix their tea – milk and sugar for Sherlock, a generous splash of milk for himself. He’d carry a cup to Sherlock and trade it for a kiss, then return to the kitchen to butter his toast, gather his tea and the remaining newspaper, and settle in the chair across from Sherlock. They’d skim the papers and point out any interesting leads until precisely 8:25 when John would set down his cup, fold up the paper, rub his thighs twice with a muttered “right”, and head to the door to put on his jacket and shoes.

Sherlock typically trailed behind him for a goodbye kiss and -- depending on how boring the day is shaping up to be – to try to cajole him into coming back to bed (it’s worked twice, so worth a try). But by 8:30 John’s always walking down the steps and out onto the pavement. 

It was utterly pedestrian, predictable practically to the second, and Sherlock secretly adored it. 

But this morning something was different.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John make an unfamiliar motion while at the same time shifting his body sideways to block the tea from view. Sherlock straightened up in his chair with interest. Was John slipping something in his tea? Perhaps this Monday wasn't going to be as boring as he had originally thought. 

But after John had given him the mug with a kiss, a tentative sip and sniff didn't indicate anything had been added. Just as Sherlock’s brain started to flip excitedly through tasteless and scentless drugs, John returned (thirty second too soon) and sat down with a carefully neutral expression. The smile starting on Sherlock’s face slipped away as he assessed the scene. One slice of toast, dry. Tea darker than usual, he measured out exactly one tablespoon -- that explained the shift, and why he was blocking his mug from Sherlock’s view. John, six and a quarter pounds heavier since the change in their relationship. That case last week -- the sister, BMI of 27.3, chatting with John about some diet she was on. Something with numbers. Was an article about it in last month’s Cosmopolitan.

Putting it together, Sherlock couldn’t stop a huff and eye roll. 

Intermittent fasting. Tedious. 

John looked up and raised his eyebrows pointedly before taking a sip of tea. 

“Keep your deductions to yourself,” he said, setting the cup down next to his pitiful slice of dry toast and unfolding the paper. 

So he did, and the rest of their morning routine was unchanged. Sherlock listened for steps retreating down the stairs and then moved to the window to follow John's progress down the block with his eyes. His gait did seem more determined than usual. Though that could also be strain from the previous night. Sherlock chewed distractedly at his nail bed and when John had safely rounded the corner, went for his laptop. 

In his research Sherlock learned that the so-called 5:2 Diet was a trendy weight loss method in which one limited one’s caloric intake on two non-concurrent days without making any changes to diet on the remaining five. So called "fasting days" were not true fasts, but one was limited to 500 calories per day for a woman, 600 per day for a man.

Sherlock snapped the laptop closed and steepled his hands under his chin. He knew from previous experience that comments - flattering or otherwise - regarding weight were rarely well received, so it wasn't worth telling John that his weight was well in the normal range for a healthy British man. Besides, John was demonstrably stubborn -- unlikely that unsolicited observations would change his mind now that he had made it up. Of course, he could undoubtedly sabotage the diet if he wanted to. But what would be the benefit? No, Sherlock couldn't see any reason to bother. In fact, the more he thought about it, perhaps this would work in his favour. If John wasn't eating, he wouldn't be nagging Sherlock to eat and that suited Sherlock just fine.

So Sherlock put all thoughts of the diet completely out of his head and, since his Monday was once again looking boring, rang up Molly to see if she had saved him anything interesting. It would be another nine hours before he realised how badly he misjudged. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~

One of the most pleasant surprises about their change of relationship status was how little had changed. For years the weight of the secret had seemed so insurmountable that Sherlock was sure that when it was released it would blow the doors off their life together at 221B. But, to his continuing fascination and relief, things largely went on as they had before. He still took cases, they ran across London after criminals and then laughed about it over takeaway, and John still shouted at him when unexpected body parts turned up in the fridge. 

Which wasn’t to say that there weren’t major changes. For instance, Sherlock no longer felt like his insides would twist apart when he saw John descending the stairs, sleep-warm body wrapped loosely in a dressing gown. John smiled 36% more than he had done before. John’s clothes had migrated down to Sherlock’s wardrobe. And then, of course, there was the sex. 

Sherlock had test driven his libido at university, but found sex distracting and repetitive. He spent the following twenty years ignoring it completely. However, in that charming way that John had of making everything tedious seem interesting, Sherlock realised that he quite liked having sex with John and went on to make up for decades of relative celibacy in the six weeks they had been together. In fact, since the foggy autumn night when the power had gone and a bottle of brandy turned into quiet confessions, they’d enjoyed sexual congress every single day -- often two or even three times, until John complained that he wasn’t a teenager anymore and no, he wasn’t going to take Viagra recreationally for God’s sake.

Which is why when John refused him on the first day of the diet, Sherlock realised that he’d gravely miscalculated the significance of the lifestyle change.

Sherlock absently registered John’s plodding steps climbing up the stairs, twenty minutes late and soaking wet. This was not completely out of the ordinary -- they lived in London after all -- and Sherlock knew from experience that a quick shower to warm up followed by a strong cup of tea, a good shag, and a hot meal would soon set John to rights again. With that in mind, he stood up from his place at the kitchen table and buttoned his jacket while scrolling through his mobile for the number -- surely the little Korean place by Holborn station would have something suitable for John’s diet -- until he realised that although John had removed his soaked coat, he wasn’t stripping his clothes off for the shower. Rather, he had set the oven to preheat and taken down a pan from the cleanest cabinet. 

Sherlock frowned and slipped the phone back into his pocket as John marched to the refrigerator, rummaged around inside, and returned to the worktop with a head of broccoli and what appeared to be chicken breast. John’s shoulders stayed close to his ears as he pulled out a knife and cutting board and set to work. He wasn’t smiling and he hadn’t said a word to Sherlock, who drifted uncertainly toward the kitchen. 

“John,” he ventured then wasn’t quite sure of how to continue. Everything in John’s body language screamed that he was spoiling for a fight. So Sherlock just kissed the still-damp back of his neck and laid his cheek there, trying to convey _safe_ and _home_. 

It must have been the right choice, because John’s shoulders loosened slightly and he hung his head forward to give Sherlock more room to nuzzle and slip his arms around John’s waist. John set down the knife and turned in Sherlock’s arms to finally give him a proper hello. 

“It’s just I’m bloody starving,” he offered sheepishly when their lips finally parted. “And bloody frozen.” 

“Get in the shower,” Sherlock urged, untangling himself and giving John a little nudge toward the hall. But John resisted. 

“Let me get this started first.”

Sherlock tried to keep his face neutral, but he couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose at the bland meal forming on the worktop. Baked chicken. Steamed broccoli. Distasteful. 

John caught the look, and Sherlock saw his expression darken. 

“I told you,” he said, slapping the chicken onto a baking pan, “Mind your own business.”

“I believe you told me to ‘keep my deductions to myself’. Doesn't take much deducing to see that you're disgusted by this meal, and quite right too, it's …” Sherlock noticed that John's hand was clenching tighter around the knife and decided to leave the sentence unfinished.

John glared at the broccoli as he dumped it into a pan of water. Seeing an opportunity to be helpful, Sherlock spoke up again.

“You really ought to get the steamer basket. The Vitamin C in the broccoli is water soluble so all the nutri--”

“Right,” John slid the chicken roughly into the oven and shut the door a little harder than necessary. “That’s about enough from you. I'm for a shower.” 

And with that, John marched across the kitchen to the bathroom and shut the door firmly behind him. Sherlock knit his brows and stared at the broccoli in the pan. Clearly the effects of this diet on John’s temperament were far greater than he had supposed. But he expected that once John ate his meal, no matter how pitiful, that his mood would improve with the flood of digestive hormones and increased circulation that came after a meal. He could wait. Actually, it might be interesting to conduct a small experiment on the rate that the chicken cooked using the temperature as a variable. He glanced toward the door of the bathroom where the old pipes were protesting under the strain of the hot water. He pictured John coming out and finding his chicken burned. Or raw. He let out a sigh and gave the simmering broccoli a half-hearted stir. 

By the time John emerged in a cloud of steam, Sherlock had plated the small meal as attractively as possible. John gave him a tight smile, sat down, and unceremoniously began shoveling the food into his mouth. Sherlock stood behind him and looked on with fascination. He knew that John could eat quickly from their cases, but this new speed was left over from his military days, he suspected. He let his mind wander down that path for a while until, of their own volition, his hands reached out to caress John’s neck. 

He was snapped out of his reverie when John firmly shrugged his hands off. 

Sherlock frowned. He would feel put out if this wasn't so interesting. In six weeks, that had never once happened. He stepped back and watched intently as John pushed back in his chair and stood to do the washing up. While he was drying his hands, Sherlock made his move, slotting himself along John's back and rubbing his nose along the ridge of John’s ear. 

“Now take me to bed,” he purred in a register that just last week had resulted in John taking him over the kitchen table instead. 

Instead of the enthusiastic response he expected, John hummed noncommittally.

“Maybe later. Top Gear’s new tonight. Thought I'd watch.”

John was already moving to the sitting room and hunting for the remote, but Sherlock was frozen in place, jaw slack and eyebrows knit. 

_Top Gear?_ John was turning down sex with him for two idiots with race cars? John’s chuckle filtered in from the sitting room and Sherlock’s jaw snapped shut. He grabbed his coat and clattered down the stairs. He was going to order an obscene amount of Korean barbeque and hope that when he got back John had come to his senses so he could shag him into the mattress. 

But when he got home hours later-- quite overfull since he didn’t have John there to split the meal -- he found John even tetchier than when he had left.

“Where have you been?” John came down the hall from the bedroom with his arms crossed. “You just disappeared. I tried calling but you left your mobile.”

Sherlock had stopped listening because his other senses were being flooded with delicious and much more interesting imagines. The smell of John’s aftershave. The wrinkling pattern in his vest and boxers indicated that he had gone to bed but hadn’t actually been trying to sleep yet. The way the muscles of his perpetually tanned arms crossed over his firm chest, just below the nipples, which were getting peaked in the chill of the flat. Sherlock licked his lips once, then toed his shoes off and started unbuttoning his shirt.

“You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

Oh, and he looked mad. He loved it when John got mad. The few small arguments they’d had since they’d been together had always resulted in John being a little rough in bed, and Sherlock could use a bit of rough right now. It had been nearly twenty-four hours and he was starting to gain new depths of appreciation for the phrase “gagging for it”. He shrugged out of his shirt, feeling the hot pressure of arousal pressing against his skin from the inside and reached out only to be met with hands firmly against his chest. He looked down at them, confused, and then up at John.

John looked caught between irritation and amusement. Not exactly an uncommon expression, but one that didn’t bode well for Sherlock shagged, roughly or otherwise.

“You’re really not listening to me at all, are you. I said I’m not in the mood -- I’m just going to turn in.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, “Not in the mood?”

“Like I said earlier, I’m hungry and knackered and to be quite honest, I just want to go to sleep so that I can wake up and bloody eat again.”

Sherlock was still standing in the hallway half hard, brain whirring, stuck on _not in the mood_. 

Mood? What was he on about?

“Don’t look like that,” John said, less kindly than he could have. Sherlock had no clue what he looked like, other than a man who clearly wasn’t about to get off. He kept staring intently until John sighed, muttered “Right,” kissed Sherlock on the cheek and turned back down the hall. 

By the time Sherlock came back to himself, the flat was dark other than the light over the hob and he could hear John’s snuffly not-quite-snores drifting down the hall from their room. Gooseflesh had raised on his bare arms. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he finished undressing in the dark and slipped into bed beside John. As he was settling onto his side, John’s stomach rumbled loudly, and Sherlock pictured the excess digestive juices moving without anything to cling onto. Clearly Sherlock had underestimated this fasting diet. 

He pulled the duvet up, curled his body along John’s, and began to plot. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next morning John was due at surgery, but Sherlock made some changes of his own to their morning routine. John awoke to four slices of toast slathered in butter and honey, a large pot of builder’s tea, and the view of Sherlock working himself open with two fingers in preparation for a post-breakfast shag. For his part, John managed to wring a spectacular, howling orgasm from Sherlock before giving himself a perfunctory clean, grabbing his keys, and whistling down the seventeen steps and out onto Baker Street. 

Sherlock, who had been up all night brainstorming ways to ensure John was never “not in the mood” again, promptly fell asleep and woke hours later to John’s growl in his ear.

“God, look at you,” he collapsed onto the bed, lips rough against the back of Sherlock’s neck, “Still shagged out in the bed where I had you this morning. Christ, that just makes me-”

John stopped talking, but Sherlock assumed that it made John “in the mood”, because he grabbed the lube and Sherlock’s cock and the next thing Sherlock knew they were gasping into each other’s shoulders. 

After, John nuzzled his cheek.

“Thai?” 

Sherlock hummed happily. Maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult after all. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next fasting day, Sherlock watched the clock and before John was due home he crawled naked into their bed, where he spent twenty minutes draping the sheets just so, making sure that when he stretched out across the mattress the afternoon light hit him in all the right spots. If John hadn’t been able to resist him still in bed last week, there was no way he’d let hunger pains keep him from this.

Except when John got home he snapped the door shut and stomped into the sitting room. 

“Sherlock?” he called sharply.

“In here,” Sherlock called back in what he hoped was his most seductive tone.’

He listened as John’s footsteps marched down the hall, shivering in anticipation for the moment when John’s weight would cover him, his mouth would press against his neck, his cock --

“What in the hell are you still doing in bed? Have you been here all afternoon?” John looked dangerous, and not in the “I’ll be a bit rough with you in bed” way, in the “I’ve killed worthier people than you” way. Sherlock pulled the sheets closer to his body and shuffled up into a sitting position. 

“No, I --”

“Must be nice. Lying about all day.”

“I thought you’d want to --”

“What? Shag the laziest consulting detective in the world?”

“To be fair I am still the _only_ \--”

“Right,” John said, and stormed back to the kitchen, Soon Sherlock could hear the sounds of broccoli being chopped angrily.

He flopped back onto the bed. 

“Fucking broccoli,” he said to the ceiling. 

“What was that?” John shouted back. 

Sherlock knew better than to reply. 

As it had been with the first day of fasting, John had a brief post-dinner satisfaction period where he apologised for shouting at Sherlock and held his hand as they watched QI. Sherlock grudgingly allowed it, but when John retired early once again he decided that more research was going to be necessary, unless he wanted to miss multiple shagging opportunities each week. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

In the weeks that followed, Sherlock quickly learned that on fasting days, the approximately three and a half minutes while John was eating dinner were the happiest he was all day. For the hour immediately after dinner John’s mood was approaching normal, comparatively. But at the one hour mark, it deteriorated at a frightening pace. Most fasting nights Sherlock retreated upstairs to his lab, or downstairs to chat with Mrs. Hudson. 

“John’s looking trim, isn't he?” 

“He looks exactly the same. He hasn't lost an ounce,” Sherlock groused, cramming one of the chocolate biscuits he wasn't allowed to keep in the flat anymore into his mouth.

“I know, the poor dear,” Mrs. Hudson changed tacks effortlessly as she stirred sugar into his tea. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I can always tell a fasting day when he comes in at the end of a shift. He grumbles to himself and never pops in to say hello or ask if I need anything.” 

She shook her head reproachfully, as if John wasn't doing exactly that five other days of the week. “Isn’t there something you can do, dear?”

“What could I possibly do?” he snapped.

Mrs. Hudson leveled her gaze at him. “I haven't heard much noise coming from your room on fasting nights either, dear.”

Sherlock growled in frustration and crammed another biscuit into his mouth. Mrs. Hudson sipped her tea demurely.

“If you're suggesting I derail the diet, it wouldn't work. No,” he said, holding up a hand at Mrs. Hudson's protest. “I know that I could successfully sabotage it. But it wouldn't. Work>. He’d just resent me and start something even stricter. The man is stubborn as a rock. And has about as much sense as one.”

“Sherlock!”

“Well, he is,” Sherlock said waspishly, gulping his tea. “Do you have any more of these?” 

Mrs. Hudson leaned over to pull a fresh packet from the side counter.

“Well, can't you do something to help then?”

“Like what?” 

“I was discussing it with your mother earlier this week and she thinks that if you--”

“Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock leaned over to snatch the packet of biscuits off the table and thundered up the stairs. 

“Sherlock, my god,” John complained from the couch as he stomped extra hard across the sitting room. “Could you keep it down? I've got a headache.”

Sherlock leaned over him to snatch the laptop off the desk. 

“Are those biscuits?” 

“Piss off!” Sherlock snapped before he could stop himself. For a moment there was nothing but silence as John looked at him incredulously. 

“Did you honestly just --”

“Experiment!” Sherlock blurted, tugging the laptop to his chest and flying out the door and up to his lab before John could begin bellowing. 

He locked the door just in case and spent the rest of the evening sulkily researching appetite suppressants and polishing off the rest of the biscuits out of spite. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next fasting day, John came home even more irritable than usual.

“There’s a nasty stomach flu,” he said grimly, reaching up for the chopping board. “Second straight day of wailing babies and vomit and collapsed veins and one woman in the waiting room -- well, I didn’t have to clean it up, but god the _smell_.”

He was chopping so fiercely that Sherlock craned his neck around from where he was sprawled on the sofa to see if he was likely to lose a finger. His knife handling technique was passable at best, and his guide finger wasn’t curled. Sherlock got so distracted wondering if John would let him keep any potentially severed digits that weren’t able to be reattached that he nearly missed what John was saying. 

“--so many walk-ins. Didn’t even get to take a lunch.”

Sherlock shot up into a sitting position, pulse racing and the blood already rushing to his groin. 

“So you can eat more for dinner?” His mind had already spun off into calculations and chemical reactions. Would John’s post-dinner satisfaction period be intensified? Or just elongated? Maybe if extra food put him in a good enough mood, he’d want to --

Sherlock sprang up from the sofa and bounded into the kitchen. 

“Well, maybe just a bit more, yes.”

Sherlock stood at John’s side, mind racing. John’s typical dinner was 300 calories and his dry toast with one tablespoon of skimmed milk breakfast was 120 calories, which meant that he typically ate 280 calories for lunch -- likely a salad from the cafe facing the clinic. Two hundred eighty calories! That was practically a normal meal, although perhaps it would be better to--

“I was thinking of not bothering, just calling it even--”

“Wine!” Sherlock blurted. “Have a glass of wine with me. Please,” he added hastily. 

John’s eyes narrowed. 

“What, did you spike the wine with something?”

“That would be a terrible plan. Typically on a fasting day you’d never even consider wine. If I was going to spike something, it would be your tea. Which would be easy enough, considering--” Sherlock decided to stop that sentence while he still had a chance at getting shagged today. 

John just rolled his eyes, said “One glass,” and retrieved the glasses from the cabinet. 

Twenty minutes later Sherlock was sitting smugly in his chair with a lapful of tipsy John Watson and being snogged senseless. John had been cajoled into two glasses of wine after Sherlock had him Google the calorie content, and halfway through the second glass he transformed into non-fasting day John, who leered at Sherlock from his chair and eventually clambered over to help himself. Sherlock tipped his head back to give access as John’s mouth worked at the side of his neck, scraping his day-old stubble deliciously against the tender skin there. 

“John,” Sherlock sighed. The triumph of finally solving the puzzle made every touch more intense. He had never been more grateful to a stomach virus. 

John hummed in his ear then sucked a lobe slickly into his hot mouth while stretching over to thumb a nipple through Sherlock’s shirt. 

“God,” John said, pulling off when Sherlock arched up to press his cock into John’s. “You’re so--” 

John broke off abruptly and rubbed a hand over his mouth. 

“I’m .. er.” He removed the hand from his mouth but the colour had drained out of his face. Sherlock surged forward and kissed him desperately, but it was already too late. John broke off and slid one socked foot and then the other off of smooth leather. 

“Actually, I’m feeling a bit,” John covered his mouth with his hand again and turned toward the loo. “I’ll just. Hmm.”

“John,” Sherlock tried, but he was already retreating down the hall and pulling the loo door closed behind him. 

After John made it clear that he didn’t need Sherlock’s help, Sherlock went up to his lab, had a stroppy wank -- his speciality lately -- and went back to research on appetite suppression. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

"John," it was another fasting night, during the post-dinner satisfaction period, and they had moved into the sitting room. "I've been doing a bit of research on appetite suppression. Apparently if you find another occupation for the mouth, the flexing of the tongue and cheek muscles satisfies hunger urges, blocks hunger-causing hormones and making food cravings less intense."

John stared at him with the beginnings of a frown. 

"Thought it might be something to try," he finished lamely. 

John rolled his eyes and stood up from his chair. He came toward Sherlock with his jaw tight and Sherlock wondered if he was going to hit him -- they were reaching the one hour mark, after all. So it took Sherlock by surprise when John fell to his knees in front of the chair. 

"Fine, alright? I’ll suck you cock. But I'm not swallowing, it's a fasting day." Then he noticed Sherlock's shocked face. "What?"

His tone held a warning so Sherlock responded as carefully as possible. " I didn’t mean -- I was thinking something along the lines of gum, or, err ... a mint? Not that I'm saying no!" He rushed on as John's jaw tightened and he pushed himself up. "It just wasn't what I inten-"

The bedroom door slamming echoed through the flat. 

Sherlock sighed. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next morning Sherlock woke where he had fallen asleep the sofa to the smell of coffee and eggs and sausage and the wet heat of John's mouth on his cock. 

After he had come, gasping, John ran his hand through Sherlock's dark curls and said, "You're a git, you know that, right?" 

Sherlock replied, "Human ejaculate on average is relatively low in -"

"Shut up."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Now that John had broached the subject, Sherlock couldn't stop wondering about the caloric content of ejaculate. When his weekend online research was inconclusive, he left John engrossed in his latest paperback and nipped over to Bart's to see if he could nick the equipment he'd need to test for himself. 

Molly was working, so he stopped to get her opinion on the experiment design for a nutritional analysis. She smiled fondly.

"That's right, John told me he was trying the 5:2! Going to surprise him with a special low-calorie meal then?"

"No, I want to determine the caloric content of my ejaculate," he corrected. 

"O-oh," Molly stammered and then, turning bright red, "Oh!" 

"So would you agree that the temperature ought to be -" he tried to continue, but Molly was muttering an excuse to hurry off down the hall. 

He waited until John was out of the flat on Monday - a fasting day - ejaculated carefully into a small crucible, and set about with the experiment. 

He lost track of time, but did manage to finish up just as John was getting home from the clinic.

"Sherlock," he sounded irritated already. "What on earth is that stench? It smells like burning-" 

"My ejaculate is 41.2 calories," Sherlock announced, beaming at John as he pushed the goggles up on his forehead. 

John stared for him a long time in silence. Then he pointed. 

"You," he said, stabbing his finger for emphasis, "are cleaning up this entire kitchen."

Sherlock cleaned the kitchen while John ate his baked chicken breast and steamed broccoli. If John was impressed that Sherlock had successfully completed a nutritional analysis, he didn't mention it. Not even during the post-dinner satisfaction period.

Molly had given him an idea though.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Maybe the reason that John was so dissatisfied by his evening meal is that it was repetitive and bland. An afternoon engrossed in dietary journals confirmed that variation in spices and flavours along with meal variation added to meal satisfaction. On afterthought, he felt that he probably ought to have been able to deduce that on his own, but he was never sure when it came to food. 

Due to the 5:2 diet’s popularity, a simple Google search turned up dozens of recipes. He got so engrossed in calculating the macro components of various dishes that he completely forgot to do the shopping like he had promised until John came home and roared. There wasn't any sex for _two_ days after that, and Sherlock redoubled his efforts in a panic. 

He finally settled on a Thai prawn stir fry with green beans, cherry tomatoes and pineapple, partly because he knew John was fond of both Thai and prawns and partly because cherry tomatoes still made him oddly nostalgic for their first meal together. The next fasting day Sherlock got up with John, carefully tidied the kitchen (research had suggested that environment also played a significant role in meal satisfaction) and set out to collect the freshest version of each ingredient that he could manage. He got back from the markets only slightly later than intended -- the money laundering fishmonger was fascinating, but John’s wrath was still fresh in his mind -- but no less determined to execute his plan. 

As he chopped and sautéed, he vaguely registered that John had come in the front door but not yet ascended to their flat. He frowned at the clock. Mrs. Hudson had better not take long with her little chat. 

But as ever, Mrs. Hudson's timing was impeccable and John slipped into the entryway just as Sherlock was setting the plates on the table. 

“What's this?” John said suspiciously, crossing the kitchen to stand with his weight braced on the back of his chair.

“Just a stir fry. It's portioned to be exactly 300 calories. Thought you might be getting bored of chicken and broccoli.” 

“It does smell good, whatever it is,” John said grudgingly. He turned back to the door to toe off his shoes and then sat down and picked up a fork.

Sherlock kept his face carefully blank but inside he was beaming. Already this plan was going better than expected. He fiddled with his phone and watched out of the corner of his eye as John speared a prawn and brought it to his mouth. A moment later he hummed approval. 

“Three hundred calories you said? Might have to let you do all the cooking from now on.” 

Sherlock fought a smirk. Yes, far better than expected. Why hadn’t he thought of cooking before? A moment later he casually extended his bare foot to have it immediately covered by John's socked one and yes -- now they were in familiar territory. 

They exchanged a smile and Sherlock felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as John raked his eyes over him appreciatively. A moment later, John looked down at his plate thoughtfully and pushed aside a chunk of pineapple and several string beans. Sherlock frowned for a moment and then a jolt of arousal shot down his spine. Yes, that looked like approximately forty calories.

Sherlock’s swallow seemed to echo in the quiet flat. 

After the meal John thanked Sherlock with a kiss and then shooed him out of the kitchen so that he could do the washing up. Sherlock, not wanting to waste any of the precious post-dinner satisfaction period, slid into the bedroom, undressed quickly and sprawled supine on the bed. As the sounds of dishes sloshing in the sink evolved to the sharp clinks of plates being put away, Sherlock’s skin prickled with arousal. If John had set aside and not eaten a certain amount of food, he must be planning on getting those calories elsewhere. Sherlock squirmed in the sheets; his cock already aching at the thought of John’s mouth closing over him.

At last the sound of John's footsteps moved down the hall. Sherlock’s whole body flushed in anticipation as he entered the room.

“Thanks again for din --” John stopped dead just inside the doorway. 

If Sherlock hadn’t been so painfully aroused he might have laughed out loud at John’s shocked expression. As it was, his eyelids, which had been hooded, flew open and he pushed himself up on his elbows.

They stared at each other, equally confused, for a long moment. John’s expression was unreadable as he crossed his arms, then brought one hand up to rub his lower lip. Finally he spoke.

“I’ve missed something.” 

Sherlock looked down at his erection self-consciously and cleared his throat. 

“At dinner. You didn’t eat all you meal, so I thought that. Maybe. Since you wouldn’t the other day.”

He looked back at John, whose expression remained puzzled. Another moment passed before Sherlock saw the realization dawn.

“So you thought, since I didn’t eat all my dinner, I was saving calories to come in here and suck you off.”

At the words, Sherlock’s traitorous cock gave a twitch. He cleared his throat again.

“Er. Yes.”

“And if it turns out I had a cuppa and a rich tea biscuit with Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock felt his face heat anew. 

“Well. That would certainly be embarrassing.”

“Yes,” John said gravely. “I imagine it would.”

Another long second passed in the ridiculous tableau before John gave a long growl in his throat and stripped with military efficency. 

“God, you gorgeous thing, I ought to say no just on principle, but when you’re spread out like that … waiting.” 

“John,” Sherlock felt relief sweep through his body as John kicked off his pants and launched himself onto the bed. John’s warm weight pressed into him and his hot mouth seemed to be everywhere, bruising his lips, biting his jaw, sucking at his collarbone. Long before Sherlock had his fill of it, John was shifting down the bed to kneel between his legs. 

“Forty one point two calories,” John said, running the tips of his fingers teasingly around Sherlock’s knees. “Did the analysis all by yourself, did you? You clever thing.”

Sherlock said nothing, but puffed up a bit at the praise. John’s hands smoothed across the delicate skin of his inner thighs and he leaned closer to inhale.

“What about the pre-ejaculate, then? Did you test that?”

“N-hmm. No."

“Mmm,” John hummed, running his tongue lightly along the underside of the shaft. “I wonder why. Is it because you only get this wet for me?”

As if confirming the hypothesis, Sherlock's cock squeezed out another dribble of fluid. John chuckled and lapped it up. Sherlock couldn't help letting out a long exhale in response, and John settled in on his stomach, running his tongue gently over delicate skin of his testicles. 

"John," Sherlock breathed, bending his knees and spreading his legs wider. "You don't have to-"

“Sherlock," John had a hold of his bollocks now and was gently rubbing them with a spit-slicked thumb. “Shut up.”

He traced his tongue around the head of his cock, pushing the foreskin back fully while letting his thumb drag down behind the sac. Sherlock swallowed back a groan.

“John.” His voice sounded breathy even to his own ears and John, as if responding to an unvoiced request, settled to his elbows and sucked Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. He bobbed his head, soft and unhurried, and slid both hands down the backs of Sherlock’s thighs to scoop under his arse. He finally introduced pressure while at the same time using his thumbs to spread Sherlock open, drawing a full body moan. John sucked in earnest and just the feeling of being open and vulnerable was making the tingle of an orgasm start in Sherlock’s spine already. When his thigh muscles started to quiver, John pulled off, pausing to give a light suck to each testicle before breathing a slow, warm breath directly over Sherlock’s entrance. Resting a cheek against Sherlock’s inner thigh, John hummed contentedly and then leaned forward to drag a flat tongue over the twitching ring of muscle.

Sherlock gave a strangled whimper as John shifted and began to lick in earnest. Once John had gotten him good and wet, his mouth moved back to Sherlock’s cock with a satisfied hum. His thumbs stayed resting at Sherlock’s entrance, not quite pressing inside, but sliding around the excess saliva and lighting up every nerve ending. Sherlock threw his head back and twisted handfuls of sheets as he panted open mouthed breaths.

“John, uhhh, John, I’m going to --” he gasped, back arching up sharply as every muscle tensed and the orgasm tore through him. He felt himself pulsing wetly into John’s mouth over and over before he finally collapsed, sated, onto the bed. 

Before he could even catch his breath to think about reciprocating, John was pushing up off his stomach and shuffling up the bed, cock flushed red and standing straight up against his stomach. It wasn’t until John threw a tightly muscled thigh over to straddle his chest that Sherlock realized what was happening. He caught John’s eye just as he braced himself against Sherlock’s chest with one hand and spit Sherlock’s come wetly into the other, which went between them, straight to his own cock.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John said, jerking his hand rapidly and edging even closer to Sherlock’s face. Sherlock could smell sweat and come and John’s own musk. He licked his lips. 

“Come on, John,” he murmured, “Give it to me. I want your come all over my face.”

“Sherlock, God, you--” John’s hand was flying and he sounded completely breathless. His thighs clamped tight around Sherlock’s chest and the wet sound of him wanking himself with Sherlock’s come seemed obscenely loud in the dimly lit room. Sherlock let his mouth fall open and stretched his tongue out just enough to rub at the head of John’s cock and “Oh, god, that’s it, I’m … uhhhhh,” John let out a guttural moan and began coming. Sherlock’s cock gave a half-hearted twitch when the first shot landed across his cheek, the second caught him around the chin and the rest slid down his neck. John, still panting, stayed upright long enough to use his spent cock to rub his come into Sherlock’s cheek and then collapsed sideways with a satisfied groan. He rolled to his stomach, shoved his arms up under the pillow and buried his face in it, letting out a contented sigh.

“Charming,” Sherlock said after a moment of silence, and John giggled beside him. He turned his face toward Sherlock.

“Well, it’s still a fasting day, after all.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and hoisted himself out of bed, moving carefully to prevent the mess from spreading as he popped into the bathroom to wash up. 

“At least you managed to avoid my hair,” he grumbled, leaning back in the room to toss a wet flannel to John.

“Hey, I didn’t fare much better here,” John said, rolling over and gesturing down.

“That was your choice,” Sherlock said in the arch way that he knew secretly drove John mad. 

“Come here, you,” John said, tossing the flannel on the floor and tugging Sherlock back into bed. Sherlock scooted close and John rested one small, sturdy hand possessively over his bare arse cheek. He tilted his head up and pressed his lips slowly and deliberately across Sherlock’s. 

“Have I told you lately how gorgeous you are?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but flushed all the same. 

“That’s post-coital hormones talking.”

John chuckled softly and rubbed his rough hand over Sherlock’s arse. He smiled softly, cleared his throat and said, “Sherlock, I wanted to --”

“No, John, wait, I want to say something first,” Sherlock interrupted, realizing that he wasn’t sure how long the post-coital satisfaction period would extend the post-dinner satisfaction period, so he’d better get it out quickly. 

“I know you’ve started this diet because you want to be healthier and lose weight, both of which are admirable goals, but I feel that I must tell you, the methods you’re using to go about--”

“Sherlock,” John sounded amused, but with an edge of irritation, so Sherlock talked faster.

“Doing this isn’t the most efficient way. Perhaps together we can come up with something that would work better for your specific--”

“ _Sherlock_ ” Now he sounded just irritated, so Sherlock decided to skip the niceties and go straight for the kill.

“The diet isn’t working. You’re overeating on the non-fast days to compensate for the low calorie days and --”

“I’m giving up the diet.”

“-- you’ve actually gained two and a quarter pounds because you overeat on the -- you are?”

Now John was grinning. 

“Brilliant,” he said softly, nudging his face into the side of Sherlock’s neck and holding it there. “You’re absolutely right. Sod it. I’ll figure something else out - an exercise routine, maybe a martial art or something like that.”

Sherlock had a brief flashing image of John, gleaming with sweat, bare-chested, veins bulging and fists tucked close to his chin.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Boxing. I’ll teach you.”

“Hang on, you box?”

“Mmm, bare-knuckle.”

John looked as though he might be having a similar fantasy and a wicked smile spread across his face.

“Well, that’s sorted then. And now, not that your dinner wasn’t lovely, but what do you say to a supplement to celebrate?”

Sherlock happily trotted into the kitchen to retrieve the menu from the new Indian restaurant around the block. He paused on his way back to dump the broccoli from the salad drawer into the bin.

“Sherlock?”

“Coming!” Sherlock replied. He grabbed the menu and his mobile and headed back into the bedroom with a grin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> Feel free to come hang out with me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/fervidasaflame) or [Tumblr](http://theresacinematicend.tumblr.com/)!


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